


Me in Seven Flashes

by popi_finnigan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, One Shot, One-Sided Attraction, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 19:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16165652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popi_finnigan/pseuds/popi_finnigan
Summary: Seven memories of Sirius cut together into a short story."(...) I’m carefree, in this very moment I am, because James grins at me and his grin infects, infects, infects me."





	Me in Seven Flashes

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a ride or die Jily shipper, but many years ago (I was tempted to say "many moons ago", and I even could hear Jess' voice from New Girl in my head...), while I was listening to Thnks fr th Mmrs by Fall Out Boy, the idea of this story was born. I originally wrote this fic in Hungarian, you can read that one [here](https://fanfic.hu/merengo/viewstory.php?sid=114880).  
> It's not a word for word translation, because I realized some of my metaphors in the original didn't make sense, so I left those out.
> 
> Please note the trigger warnings in the tags. Everything is only implied or mentioned, but please be careful if you think you might be triggered by any of the topics.

_When we street-race..._

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”  
“It’s absolutely not.”  
James’ grin is as infectious as ever. One should get a vaccine; otherwise there is not much to do against it.  
The London night is vibrant, the stars bright gold. My hands are gripping the broom so strongly that they go white. There is a bomb, ticking in my chest, ready to explode. _Inasecond, inasecond, inasecond_ , I mutter— then we kick ourselves off the pavement. We are rapid curses shot in the air.  
“The tenth streetlamp?” I shout at James.  
“Fine by me!” he shouts back, or, at least that’s what I hear his reply to be, but his voice is muffled by the wind.  
In the corner of my eyes I can see the streetlights, they are a splatter of yellow, and the stars, sweet nothings far, far away, and I don’t care that I laugh, that I must seem crazy, that anyone could see us. I don’t care, not in this moment. I don’t care about muggles and rules, only that seven, eight... James and I are faster than any thought.... nine... faster than fear and any desire.  
We are rulers of the world.  
“I win,” James declares, quite unnecessarily, when I shoot through the finish line with centimetres behind him.  
“Naturally,” I say, and I’m carefree, in this very moment I am, because James grins at me and his grin infects, infects, infects me.

 

_When I say, „Good luck on the date”..._

“Mommy and daddy are going on a date?”  
James doesn’t like my tone, I can tell from the way his mirror-self shoots a glance at me.  
But he only asks this, “How do I look?”  
I almost say something, then something else out loud, “How should I know what gets Evans going? Ask her!”  
James smoothes down his shirt with his hand. This is the eighth time he is doing it since he put it on.  
His hand is still on his chest. “What’s with all this snapping today?”  
I still look at James’ hand.  
“And with that we can check off the dog pun of the day.”  
He turns his gaze back to his mirror-face, and I finally exhale. “It wasn’t even intentional this time. Would you believe it?”  
I shrug, because I feel like I should do something.  
“Wormtail and Moony might cheer you up a bit. I’ve seen them last in the library.”  
“I’ll find them.”  
_You just have fun with— on Evans, whichever you prefer._  
_You just parade around in your stupid shirt._  
_You just—_  
_You just—_  
“Good luck on the date!”

 

_When we are having fun in the snow..._

“How the hell can you have this enormous of a feet, James Potter?!”  
My boots fit into James’ footprint with its tip being centimetres away from his. I look at it incredulously, then I move along and knock the snow out of the bottom of my boots.  
“You are a half-troll, you can admit it now.”  
“We won’t judge,” Remus adds.  
“Though you might get a wooden club as a Christmas present from us,” Peter laughs.  
James spares us a pitying look. “You know what they say about men with big feet...”  
I might choke on my own saliva. 

 

_When James is my best mate..._

“Should I burn it or just shred it into pieces in the good old way?”  
James doesn’t look like someone capable of forming a coherent sentence. Not in this morning, at least, if I am to believe the bags under his eyes.  
“Huh?”  
I show him my mother’s letter.  
“She’s owled you.” He puts down his toast, which is fortunate, because, instead of jam, he has managed to spread sour cream on it. “But— it’s been months since the last one.”  
“Nostalgia.”  
“Bullshit.”  
“She’s been threatened.”  
“She would deserve it.”  
“She was drunk. Has amnesia. Wrong address. Weird effect of menopause.”  
“Sirius!”  
Shredding it suits me fine. The sound of the rip of paper is like an insult.  
“She doesn’t write anything of importance, anyway.”  
Like a spit right into my mother’s face.  
“I’m still a disappointment.”  
Like a melodic curse.  
“A shame.”  
Like a slap.  
“A freak.”  
Like a sock into the wall.  
I only notice that I’m shaking when James pushes me back down to the bench.  
His hands are on my shoulder.  
On my shoulder there are James’ hands.  
The urge to punch into a wall has never been this strong.

 

_When we sneak out of Hogwarts for one last time…_

“Two galleons that Wormtail is gonna cry, what do ya think, Prongs?”  
“You are on.”  
Remus observes the moon above us, it’s a snarl sideways. He doesn’t even bother to cast a judgy glance at us, while he says, “You two can’t help but throwing away your money in handfuls, can you?”  
“Relax, Moony, this time it’s for charitable causes.”  
There is a raised eyebrow from Remus. There is a frown from Peter. There is a ‘what the hell are you talking about’, this is from me with lots of love.  
James takes a dramatic pause, before he starts explaining. His pauses are almost as fascinating as his grins.  
“Are you lot aware how much financial loss we caused to the local shops?” He waves his hand around. This wave, I suppose, is aimed to include all of Hogsmeade. “This whole ghost business... Tourists go ogling the Shrieking Shack before they’d visit Zonko’s.”  
I’m swept up in the pretence dramatics in his voice. “Yeah, we like Zonko’s after all, don’t we, lads? We ought to do some repaying on our last night here.”  
James nods vehemently. “I’ll raise the stakes. How about ten galleons?”  
“That’s all you’ve got?”  
I pull out twenty-one galleons, two sickles and ten knuts from my pockets, then I toss it all into James’ hands.  
We run to Zonko’s Joke Shop and promptly forget about the whole bet ordeal. Our steps pound on the gravel and we play. We play that we are unstoppable, that we are rebels, that we, the four of us, are infinite.  
We stuff all of our fortune into the window frames. Peter flings the knuts, that bounced off the glasses, among the little stones surrounding the building.  
Remus sighs. “Sometimes I hate you lot.”  
“Not a problem, Moony—“  
_— because I also hate myself._  
“— because that doesn’t mean that you’ll get rid of us.”

 

_When I drive a flying motorcycle..._

“Was it an excellent or a genius idea to buy this motorcycle?”  
“You’ve almost run into a tree. I vote for the third option.”  
First option: man up and fake a girlfriend.  
“Prongs, has anyone ever told you what a bore you are?”  
“Nope.”  
Second option: become a priest.  
“At least get a license or something! As my best man, it’d be incredibly rude of you to die before my wedding. You really want to off yourself?”  
Third option: maybe.

 

_When I am the best man of James..._

“James Henry Potter, do you take Lily Jane Evans as your lawful wife?”  
I want to tramp into the cake.  
I want to cut with the buttering knife into my wrist.  
I want to set the lilies on fire.  
I want to get this thing out of me—  
something  
out of me  
out of me  
me.  
“Yes, I do.”

 

_..._

“Seven? Seven _again_?”  
My laugh is not like in the old times, like a bark, it isn’t loud, no one answers to it, it isn’t a laugh at all.  
“Seven is the number of the devil. That’s why you suck seven memories out of me every day?”  
Seven memories, one day... If I wanted, I could count how much time has passed since—  
“You‘re mad if you think you can have your fill with them.”  
My memories are just like me.  
Black, a fine-sounding name; pity that he is a disappointment to his family.  
Handsome lad; pity that he didn’t find anyone for himself.  
The icing; pity that the dough is all rotten.  
The new polish on the motorcycle; pity that the engine won’t start.  
As if— and almost— but no, he has been infected.  
“Haven’t you noticed? I ruin even my own good memories.”

**Author's Note:**

> Two things.
> 
> One, I have absolutely no idea whether Henry is James' middle name or not. It might be Fleamont, it might be something completely different. The same goes for Jane as Lily's middle name.
> 
> Two, English is not my native language, and I'm writing in it precisely because I want to get better at it. So please, if you see any sentence, word, anything really, that doesn't make sense, let me know and I'll correct it. :)


End file.
